


the third time's the charm

by bistiles (alis)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (only in mentions), Harpies, M/M, Mentioned Lydia Martin, Past Braeden/Derek Hale, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Trapped In Elevator, mentioned Kira Yukimura
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alis/pseuds/bistiles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles realizes he's in love with Derek Hale after five years without seeing him, it comes in time with a supernatural menace, unexpected appearance and elevator problems.</p><p>[Answer to Sterek Writers Prompt: "Stuck In An Elevator After a Fight".]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the third time's the charm

**Author's Note:**

> [Please, don't post this work anywhere outside AO3, be it Goodreads or any other website]

Of all things that can be said about Stiles, that he’s good at taking his social cues, isn’t one of them. He isn't. He never was. If Stiles was even remotely good at understanding things, he would have picked up on the fact he had zero chances with Lydia way before the long ten years he spent carrying a torch for her. Or Stiles would have understood that his relationship with Malia was more of a physical thing, than an emotional one and completely avoided the entire mess of the fallout.

Alas, Stiles is bad at this kind stuff. He blames himself, mostly, for his inability to deal with emotional matters like most people do. That and all the weird expectations that seeing his parents' epic marriage gave him about love. So what if he always longed for something like that for himself? Sue him for being a closeted romantic.

So it isn't really a surprise that it took Stiles four years (and half) of college to realize he maybe was in love with a person. Really, it should have been obvious, what, with after everything they went through together. Still, it took Stiles _that_ long to understand that yes, he is very much in love with the last person he ever imagined being in love with.

Namely Derek S. Hale.

It was a realization that took Stiles by open and frank surprise. He was taking his finals one day, thinking how close he was to going back home and seeing his dad again. He thought of his favorite place to buy curly fries while he answered boring questions about the Renaissance, and then he moved to dream about Melissa McCall's famous apple pie while writing a very detailed description about Impressionism.

Then, he thought about Derek.

Derek had left Beacon Hills, apparently for good, when Stiles was in his senior year of high school. It was a bit of a surprise to one day realize that the guy wasn't _there_ anymore for the pack. Granted, senior year was a huge mess, and maybe thoughts about Derek's absence were shoved aside by the urgent need to stay alive, but it was a bit like a toothache you can't ignore. Stiles caught himself missing Derek in small ways : when there was a big baddie they had to take down, and Stiles would automatically think of calling Derek for reinforcements, or thinking about dropping by the loft to bug Derek about his latest theory about supernatural creatures, or just the lack of Derek audible eye-rolls every time Stiles opened his mouth.

It was a weird year.

Then college happened, and thoughts of Derek became secondary, at best. Just fleeting thoughts, from time to time. True, the space between one thought and the other was as short as a day, but it just didn't occur to Stiles then that he was in love.

It still didn't dawn on Stiles when Scott would casually mention Derek here and there. Apparently, they exchanged messages. Huh. Who would have thought? Scott would talk about Derek travelling, about Derek and Braeden, then how apparently they went their separate ways. Scott was never consistent on his news about Derek, but, before Stiles noticed, he was living for these small tidbits about Derek's life.

Still, college was busy. Stiles had things to do. Like socializing. Finding himself a girlfriend, then a boyfriend. Then both, at the same time, which ended up in a huge, terrible mess he would rather forget (never two timing again. Never). However, Derek was still there in the back of his mind. When Olivia, his third girlfriend, tried to use blood magic — using _his_ blood no less — to raise _her_ first boyfriend from the dead, well, Stiles couldn't help but think that Derek had a lifetime of experience spotting crazy, murderous significant others, and they should totally have a chat about it some time. For some reason, Derek just... Stuck in his mind, lurking on the periphery of his thoughts more consistently after that.

Now, that Stiles is back in Beacon Hills with his degree in Graphic Design, hanging out with his best friend (now a very competent veterinarian, Stiles is just _so proud_ ), controlling his dad's diet, he realizes Derek never came back to Beacon Hills. Ever. Stiles hasn't seen — or talked to — Derek for almost five years now. That's sixty months. Roughly two hundred and forty weeks. That's something around one thousand and eight hundred days, ignoring February's weird day count and months with thirty-one days. Anyway. It's a long time.

Stiles misses Derek. A lot. So much it's weird, because he didn't miss Scott like this, and he sure as hell didn't miss his dad like this. He didn't miss _Lydia_ like this, for fuck's sake, and that's a huge, huge sign telling him that the way he misses Derek is probably a little more deep than a friendly “ _Oh look, I miss that dude I used to talk to in the eighth grade_ ”. In fact, a lot more deep. Most certainly bordering on the “ _there's a gaping Derek shaped wound in my heart, and that's so scary_ ” line.

So maybe this realization hits him at 4AM, while Stiles is sitting in his old Jeep, in the drive-thru for late night (or would it be early morning...?) curly fries and shake. He's thoroughly baffled. For one, because he can't believe he's still unable to regulate his sleep and is still running on the College Schedule of (no) Sleep, that consisted of four hours a night, plus a power nap through the day between some classes, so he could do _everything_ he needed to graduate. Hence the 4 AM snack. Secondly, because really? Really? He's having the epiphany of his life while sitting in his Jeep, with a grumbling stomach and a sleepy-looking cashier waiting impatiently for him to take the change from his food.

Stiles drives away without getting it. He keeps driving until the sun is up, and he's sweating a bit inside the car. It's a hot day for Spring, but Stiles isn't even able to entirely register that until he's parking in Scott's driveway and stumbling out of his Jeep.

Scott, bless his heart, opens the door, regardless of the fact that it's a quarter to eight Saturday morning. He opens the door, wearing a ratty Captain America t-shirt and red boxer shorts that are slightly offending to the eye, but Stiles is too upset to give it much thought. He files it for a later talk anyway.

“Stiles? What happened?” Scott asks, opening the door a bit wider. Stiles wastes no time stepping inside; he knows Scott's house better than himself anyway.

Scott lives in his childhood home, even if Melissa isn't living there anymore. She moved out once she married Stiles' dad, and they are both living in a nice house in the old district. It has a white fence and all.

John sold Stiles’ childhood home, which was probably one of the hardest decisions Stiles ever had to support his father in, but his dad didn't want Melissa to sell her own home, and neither wanted to live in each other's old houses. Scott and Kira were already engaged by then anyway, and it was pretty much a sure thing they would marry before graduating — and they would need a house. Back then, Stiles, though, was in the middle of his third year of college and still unsure if he would actually return to Beacon Hills one day. It seemed logical to leave the McCall house alone, and use the money from his childhood home to finance his dad's and Melissa's new one.

It still hurt like hell to let it go. Stiles is still unable to pass by the house. He always takes the long way to Scott's house.

Stiles sighs and drops himself unceremoniously on the couch. It's a new couch, not the one Stiles remembers from his childhood, but it's comfortable and homey enough.

“Scott. Scotty. My bro. I'm screwed.”

Scott frowns, closes the door and sits on the beige recliner that is his pride and joy. Stiles think it's ugly as hell, but Scott loves the thing. It's comfortable; Stiles is going to give it to him, and maybe it does fit Scott, in a way.

“What did you do?” Scott asks, leaning forward and staring intently at Stiles. He isn't trying to pull the Alpha card. Stiles knows this, but by now, it seems like second nature to Scott. He does it without even noticing, and it doesn't bother Stiles in the slightest

“Why do you assume I did something wrong? Maybe someone wronged me! Maybe I need you to avenge me.”

Scott blinks and then gives a crooked smile. Stiles smiles back on instinct.

“Because I know you. Now, what did you do?”

“It’s what I didn't do. That's maybe the issue; I didn't do anything, because I was so _slow_ to notice things. Like, fucking hell, Scotty, how did I never notice this before?”

Scott frowns and inclines his head to the side, in a very canine motion. Stiles would point it out, but he is too busy freaking out about his feelings. How has he never realized he likes Derek? Four years. Almost five years. Maybe it was longer? Oh my god, what if it was longer? What if he's stupidly dragging his love for Derek for _years_ now, unaware of his own feelings?

Is it Stiles or does the room feel stuffy? It definitely feels stuffy, yeah, real stuffy. His hands are clammy.

“Okay...” Scott says slowly, like he is trying to make sense of Stiles’ nonsensical ramblings. They are best friends for a reason, after all. “Ok, so you didn't notice something. What is it that you didn't notice? Because, I don't know dude, if you didn't notice, probably I didn't notice too, so I'm worried?”

Stiles nods and then groans loudly, before hiding his face in his hands. How is he going to tell Scott that he is in love with Derek freaking Hale? Honestly, he can barely understand why and how that happened himself. He groans again, before raking his fingers through his hair. The gel he uses makes his hair feel stiff and coarse under his fingers, and Stiles considers he should probably take a shower at some point in the near future. Though personal hygiene can wait until he doesn't feel like his head is full of buzzing bees. In love. With Derek! _How?_

“Dude, it isn’t a matter of life and death. Maybe my life or death, but that’s debatable. I think it’s more a case of questioning my sanity and–”

Scott raises one hand, cutting Stiles' babbling before it goes too far. It could be said before he embarrasses himself, but Stiles is fully aware that’s a constant in his life. Maybe the only real truth. He’s always embarrassing himself. Terribly so. Like for example, having feelings for Derek Hale and coming to tell Scott, because he can’t deal with it himself. Is he really twenty-four? Because it sure doesn’t feel like it.

“Stiles. Bro. Chill, and tell me what’s happening.”

“I think I’m perhaps, maybe, perchance, totally a possibility, _inlovewithDerek_.”

“ _What?_ ” Scott exclaims, eyes wide and mouth falling open. He even physically recoils with shock, hitting the recliner with a soft thud.

“What?” Stiles repeats innocently. He can backtrack. He probably will. In fact, he should stand up and moonwalk away from the house, pretend this conversation never happened.

Scott gapes at him for several seconds, before he blinks in a daze. He looks as shocked as Stiles feels, which is, at very least, some solace. He isn’t the only one completely dumbfounded by this new emotional development. Is it even a development? Or a retrogression? Maybe it’s something else entirely, a complete new category of fuckedupness only achievable by Stiles.

“Did you just say you're in love with— With _Derek_?” Scott asks, in a shocked tone of voice. There might be a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, one that Stiles is fully prepared to slap away if it becomes even a tiny bit more noticeable. “Why? How? Were you guys talking behind my back — why didn't you tell me? Dude!”

“Wow, hold your horses right there, Alpha o'mine, I wasn't talking to Derek, okay? In fact, I haven't heard from the dude since he left; the little I know, I know through you. Which, to be honest, just makes everything worse.” Stiles stops. Sighs. Rubs his scalp. His hair feels really disgusting. “I... I kinda just realized it when I was getting my late night snack, okay? There I was, thinking of savoring my beloved curly fries, when it dawned on me I'm totally into Derek, of all people. I've been for a long time now. And I don't even know how long.”

“Oh bro...” Scott says, elongating the “o” until it ends on a stunned sigh.

“I know, okay. Trust me, I do.”

They both just stay in silence, Scott looking at Stiles, and Stiles staring at that wet spot on the wall that was the result of a broken pipe three Summers ago, when a fight with a siren ended with half of the front walls of the McCall home badly damaged. He remembers how devastated Melissa had looked back them and how his dad had been the first one to offer help. She moved temporarily to Stiles' old home, and, now that Stiles is thinking of it, that was probably when his dad and Melissa officially started dating. Everything because of a crashed walls. Huh.

Scott cracks his back and stands up, gesturing for Stiles to come with him. Stiles does, dragging his feet. If he hoped it would make better sense once he told Scott, Stiles is sorely mistaken. Nothing makes sense. He still feels as weird out about his realization as he did at first. He also feels weirdly heavy now. Like there's this heavy anxiety settling on his chest, as if he should do something about his feelings. Except what would Stiles even do?

They move to the kitchen, and Scott puts the coffee maker to work. It's almost eight thirty now; he should probably call his dad, make his daily check in on the old man. He supposes it can wait a little bit longer. After all, Melissa is there now, even if at times, Stiles completely forgets he has someone that cares for his dad just as much as he does.

Scott hums to himself and hops onto the counter, looking curiously at Stiles.

“So... You just realized it out of the blue?” He asks, dangling his legs. It reminds Stiles so much of when they were both children, it almost feels like déjà vu.

“Yeah... I mean, I've always thought about Derek. Like, a lot. All the time. Not obsessively so, y'know, but like sometimes I would be doing something and think ' _What would Derek do in this case?_ ', or I’d see something, be reminded of him, and then wonder ' _What is Derek doing now?_ ' It was just there, kinda lurking in the back of my thoughts. Just like Derek himself, I guess. Even thoughts of him have a creeper quality, oh my god...” Stiles scrubs his hand down his face, groaning a bit.

Scott snorts and laughs, and Stiles smirks back, sighing softly at the weight of his own confessions. The coffee maker makes soft slurping noises; Scott's is a simple model, those that make coffee in a pot without a timer. It still makes a delicious coffee though. Stiles has two coffee makers in his apartment, a fancy Keurig he got from his ex-roommate on Christmas, and a french press, but he still very much enjoys this coffee maker. It must be at least six years old now. Scott has had it for almost as long as they have known Derek.

“So...” Scott prompts softly, and Stiles realizes he stopped talking, while musing about coffee makers. He rubs his eyes, realizing he's tired — well, not sleeping does that to a person. He should probably drive home soon, take a nap.

“Sorry, mind wandered. I mean, it was always small things, so small it never caught my attention until today. Until I realized it's been freaking five years, Scott — _five!_ — and I'm still thinking about the guy, wondering how he is doing.” Stiles pauses, gives a bitter laugh, “ _Missing_ him.”

Scott hums thoughtfully and hops off the counter, takes the glass carafe to the table. He picks two mugs — a yellow one with a fox painted on the body, with the fox's tail for the handle, that was obviously Kira's gift, and an older, chipped Spiderman mug that has been Stiles' since forever.

“Funny, when I think about it, it makes sense that you like Derek,” Scott offers as he pours coffee on the mugs, slides the Spiderman one to Stiles.

Stiles doesn't pick it up immediately though; he stares at Scott, waiting for an explanation that doesn't come. “What do you even mean by that?” Stiles finally asks, when Scott is sitting and sipping on his coffee.

“I mean what I said, Dude. You were always so obsessed with Derek back then; you loved blaming him for the stupidest things. Like, where there's hate, there's a great potential for love too, right?”

“Bullshit. Are you reading self-help books again? Because, Bro, we talked about it,” Stiles picks up his mug and glares at Scott over the rim. The coffee smell alone makes Stiles feel a bit more awake than he did five minutes ago. A bit more focused, too. He sips on it, and moans quietly. When everything sucks, trust coffee to still be divine.

Scott shrugs, looking eerily calm. He shouldn't look calm. Stiles liked him better when he looked as shocked as Stiles felt.

“I didn't read any self-help books. It just makes sense. You were covering your feeling by acting like you hated Derek. Pigtail pulling, and all that.”

Blinking in stunned silence, Stiles tries to make his brain come around what Scott is saying because... Because...

“Scott, you're talking about— About _years_ here, you're talking about like, six, seven years; don't do this.”

Scott raises an eyebrow over his mug, looking utterly unimpressed by Stiles' denial. It looks like a weak imitation of Derek's Judgmental Eyebrows, actually. Stiles opens his mouth to point this out, but closes it with a snap. Mentioning Derek wouldn't really do much for his case, would it?

“And so what if it's years, Stiles? I mean, yeah, it sucks you didn't do anything about it before, but I'm not sure why you're so freaked out.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Stiles says sarcastically, gesturing wildly with his mug in hand, “maybe because I just realized I have feelings for the least likely person in the whole universe? And that now I have no idea what to do, because I haven't seen the guy for the past five years, and— honestly, Scotty, even if we were friends, chances of me getting up _that_? Hah, yeah, not happening.”

“Don't sell yourself so short, dude. You're hot.”

“Your opinion doesn't count, Scott, we're bros, you have to find me hot.” Stiles whines, as Scott picks the mug from Stiles' hands, and places it inside the sink, before pulling Stiles up.

“True, but hey! I have eyes, okay? And you're still totally hot, bro or not,” Scott starts nudging him in the direction of the door, and Stiles harrumphs in annoyance, but goes willingly to the door, “I would so hook up with you, if we weren't best bros.”

“Aw, thank you, Scotty. I like your ass too.”

“I know,” Scott says cheekily, and Stiles scoffs under his breath, “By the way, the least likely person for you to fall in love with wouldn't be Derek; that would be Isaac.”

Stiles lets out a startled laugh, before turning to Scott, who's leaning against the door-frame, looking weirdly amused. Stiles guesses he would be amused too if Scott had a sudden epiphany about his love life. Though, come to think of it, Scott did have several epiphanies about his love life by the course of the years, so maybe that's why he's so calm about it.

“Listen, Stiles, I would love to let you freak out some more, but Kira just woke up; I can hear her going around the bedroom, and I promised her we would do, uh, stuff today. So, for real, go home, take a shower — you smell, no offense — and just go to sleep. When you wake up, I bet things will look less convoluted.”

“Did you just say convoluted?” Stiles asks, squinting comically at Scott, that just rolls his eyes, and pretends he will throw his slipper at Stiles. That's when Stiles actually realizes Scott has fox slippers. _Oh my god_.

“Don't look so surprised, asshole. I have a degree.”

“Hell, yeah! You do!” They both beam at each other, because they both have degrees. Who would have thought? “Thanks, Scotty. Go get some with your wife.”

Scott does throw his fox slipper at that.

**x-x-x-x-x-x  
**

Stiles is sitting in his living room, wearing just his underwear, when his phone rings. After a five hour long nap and a long shower, things did look better than they did before, but Stiles is still unsettled by it. The shock wore off, but he isn't sure what to do with himself after realizing his feelings. In movies, that's always the moment where the plot conspires for the couple to get together, but that's not a romcom, it's Stiles' life, and what he gets is a call.

He tries to gulp his mouthful of Froot Loops and milk and wiggles so he can take his phone from under himself. Which is very fortunate, because he wouldn't have heard it, not over the deafening volume at which he's (re)watching The Avengers. Stiles isn't sure why his phone is where it is, but at least it saved him the trouble of going looking for it, since it's vibrating right under his left butt cheek.

If he had any hopes that maybe, just maybe, that call would mean any development regarding the Derek Situation (Yes, they are capitalized in Stiles' mind, they are major like that), he was sorely disappointed.

“Yo, Scotty, what's up?”

“Stiles,” and that alone made Stiles sit straighter on his ratty couch and put his Froot Loops aside, because his tone alone means trouble, “We have a problem.”

“What? What happened? Where are you? Is anyone dead? Please, tell me no one is dead,” Stiles babbles, as he paws around for the remote control, so he can turn off his television. He switches it off just in time to hear some god-awful screeching in the background of Scott's call. “What the—”

“Yeah, so _that._ Hm, no one is dead, okay? But I think a harpy made a nest close to Derek's building.”

“Come again now?”

“Harpy. Or, more like several harpies. They're terrorizing people around here. They make a lot of noise, and some of the tenants in the surrounding buildings called animal control. Like, one of them apparently even stole food from a old lady; luckily she thinks it was a seagull to steal her sub. I need you to find me a way of dealing with them, preferably without killing them.”

“Set them on fire.” Stiles replies, without missing a beat. The easiest solution is usually the best one possible.

There's another screech, this time followed by a second, more high pitched one. Even through the call, they seem far away enough so that Stiles isn't worried about Scott's immediate safety.

“What part of _preferably without killing them_ did you miss?”

Stiles stands up, looks around for clean pants. He knows he has them; he did laundry two days ago. He might have forgotten to fold the clothes, and they might be lying on a heap over the coffee table, but they are _clean_.

“Well, the part where setting it on freaking fire would solve our problems,” Stiles snarks, finding a pair of dark jeans. They are the nicest he has, so Stiles really hopes they don't end up ruined, “Are you sure it's a harpy?”

There's a long pause, like Scott is trying to access if it is, in fact, a harpy. Stiles can almost picture his face — squinting eyes, inclining the head to the side, frowning a bit, like he's deep in thought, — in his mind eye.

“... Well, they fly?”

“Scott, do you have any idea how many flying supernatural creatures exist? A whole freaking lot of them, that's how many. Some are even extremely similar, okay? I need to know for sure, so I can research it properly. Can you take a picture for me?”

“It's too dark, and I'm not close enough. I guess I can go in and—”

“No, no. No going in alone. You said Derek's building?” Hah, yes, but of-fucking-course there would be a supernatural disturbance around Derek's building. Of course Stiles would be forced to swing by there, only to know that the loft is locked up and empty, and has been for years now. Just his luck, really.

“Yeah. I'm at a safe distance; I was afraid they would sense me, and maybe attack? And I would rather solve this pacifically.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, tells Scott to stay put, and pulls on a shirt. He's ready and out of the door not even two minutes after finishing the call, already because how many times did the pacific route work for them? None, that's how many times, and Stiles would rather see exactly what they are up against, lest be it some bird-demon-deity thing that will burn Beacon Hills to the ground.

What? Stiles wouldn't even be surprised if it was the case. It wouldn't even be the first bird, demon or deity they faced.

The drive to Derek's building, isn't that long, for which Stiles is both glad and apprehensive. Stiles hasn't gone anywhere near Derek's place — or the Hale House, for that matter — ever since he moved back to Beacon Hills. It wasn't so much a conscious decision, as it was a matter of logic: Derek didn't live there anymore, there was nothing for Stiles in that part of the city, and even after his major emotional epiphany, going to where the guy he has be pinning after lived five years ago is just a tad too pathetic, even for Stiles’ standards.

Except, as always, all it takes to change the rules is a supernatural emergency. Stiles's heart doesn't squeeze at the sight of the building, it doesn't, and he doesn't mind the differences from when Derek was still there. He barely notices the sober beige color and red accents of the front of the façade, or how the windows seemed to be all new, even on the floor Stiles knows for a fact, was Derek's loft. There are other cars parked in front of it, when once upon a time, it was just Derek's ‘mom' car, or Stiles' Jeep. There are even other houses nearby now, a couple buildings that were abandoned five years ago are now renovated and inhabited too.

Scott waits by his motorcycle, and Stiles parks his car at his side. They are just a couple of houses away, close enough they have a perfect visual of the building, but safe enough the harpies — or whatever they are — won't see them, unless they are looking for them.

“Hey, man. That was fast,” Scott says, as he puts his hand out for Stiles to slap.

Stiles obliges and hops out of the Jeep,

“Yeah, well, you interrupted my morning cartoons, but you're forgiven,” Stiles says, as he squints at the sky. A dark form flies in circles at the top of the building, before disappearing from view as it lands. Stiles frowns; from where he is, he can't really tell what it looks like. “Did they do anything while I was on my way?”

“Nope, just flying around and screeching. We have to act quickly, before they call animal control. I don't even want to imagine how bad that would go.”

“Bloodbath bad,” Stiles says, and rubs his face, thinking. If he had binoculars, it would be probably easy, but it didn't occur to him to bring them. From where he is, he's only 60% sure Scott got it right, but if they aren't, things can get annoying. “Do you think you could sneak on them and, I don't know, send me a picture or a video of them?”

Scott frowns, inclines his head to the side.

“I could try, but I think they can sense me. Both times I tried to get closer, there was a lot of screeching.”

He looks around and, well. One of the buildings close by is high enough he might get visual if he goes to the top. It also means that the harpies might get a visual of _him_ , and he would really love to avoid that. Still, it's that, or Scott tripping the harpies' alarm, and causing a hell lot of noise Stiles would rather avoid.

Groaning pitifully, Stiles just walks around the Jeep and pops the trunk open. Years of pack taught Stiles to have some things at hand at all times, if possible, and so he keeps some emergency supplies there. He shuffles through bags of mountain ash, and parts of mistletoe, a case of wolfsbane ammo he isn't supposed to have (With a gun he shouldn't have as well), and pulls out his baseball bat. It's not the one he used to use in high school; this one is newer, engraved with runes from top to bottom with spikes at the end. The runes will grant him some protection, much needed stealth and render the bat more resistant. It's Stiles' favorite for more reasons than one.

“Okay, Scotty, listen up. I'm going up that building,” Stiles says, after he closes the trunk, weights the bat in his hand, “and I need you to keep your eyes and ears open, because if shit gets ugly, I need you to save my cute ass. As usual.”

“You told me not to go in alone, and you're doing it yourself?”, Scott asks skeptically, and Stiles shrugs.

“Do as I say, not as I do, Scott. Also I'm not alone; you're here with me to ensure I come out of this in one piece,” Stiles quips, as he tries to think of anything that might help him. The gun would be nice, but he would rather not draw attention to himself. Also he isn't sure wolfsbane is effective on harpies anyway. If they are, in fact, harpies.

“I don't like this. We can call on the rest of the pack, and I don't know, think of another strategy.” Scott insists, falling into step with Stiles, as he makes his way to the building. It doesn't take even four steps, before the creatures start to screech. One shoots to the sky, and starts flying in circles. Stiles stops, and turns to Scott, who's hastily retreating back, one eyebrow raised.

“You were the one saying that you didn't want killing. You call on the rest of us, you can bet this will get messy,” and they both know they are right. If the creatures are reacting to Scott alone, who knows how they will react to the rest of them? “Also, c'mon, who's even in the city anyway? I know Lydia is away, Liam decided to stay at Cal. God knows where Malia went to now. Our only choice is Kira, and she's working.”

Scott sighs, mutters something to himself that Stiles can't make out, before nodding and looking at Stiles. “Okay, okay. Just scream for me, and I'll come for you, okay?”

Stiles gives a two fingers salute, and jogs away.

**x-x-x-x-x-x**

All things considered, Stiles should have known things would go wrong. Mostly because they were going so well (And when does anything ever go well in his life?). Getting to the building was easy. No evil birds made any ruckus about it, nor tried to rip him to shreds, which was huge in Stiles' book. The building's door was unlocked and the lobby devoid of any nosy doorman or janitor that could make his life potentially hard. He managed to get in, call the elevator, and ride up with no trouble and all. He was lured with a false sense of security.

He stepped out of the elevator on the last floor and looked around. It was apparently abandoned, if how the walls weren't painted or the lack of working lights in the corridors were any indication. It would be creepy enough as it was, but he doesn't know where the door to the rooftop even is which meant exploring that creepy floor. Alone. In the dark.

Stiles goes, walking slowly, baseball bat ready in hand. While he's fairly sure the floor is empty, it does nothing to drown out the sounds coming from above. The creatures are moving above and make the most hair-raising assortment of noises Stiles ever had the misfortune of hearing in the dark. Rustling of feathers, the low, high-pitched screeching that they seem to communicate in, something that Stiles is sure is the sound of claws on the concrete. It's nerve-wracking to move with that as soundtrack, and Stiles bemoans, in silence, his lack of forethought at not bringing a pocket flashlight with him. He could use his phone, but then he would need to swing his bat one-handed, and it's bad enough as it is.

The little light he has, is coming from two fluorescent lights that didn't fail and are blinking intermittently. It's almost worse like that. Especially, as part of the floor is wet with what seems to be a leakage from the ceiling and is reflecting the lights in weird ways.

So it is to be expected that, giving the way things were going, that when he finally reaches the door written Staff Only, it is stuck.

“Fuck,” he curses low, and pulls the door again, without success. It doesn't give one inch, and Stiles curses again for good measure. It doesn't look locked; it doesn't have a lock to begin with, just a handle that has seen better days.

Seeing as it won't budge, Stiles decided that he might as well give it an honest try. He leaves the bat against the wall, looking warily over his shoulder. Gulping and begging that his life doesn't turn into a horror movie, Stiles holds the handle with both hands, puts his foot on the wall and _pulls._

The handle snaps and breaks from the door with a loud clank, and Stiles stumbles back, before catching himself on the wall. He stares at the handle still in his hands, until he hears the curious clink of metal hitting the floor. Stiles blinks, and looks up, just in time to see the second hinge on the door fall neatly on the floor.

He barely has the time to dodge it before the door hits the floor with a booming sound that echoes down the corridor.

Stiles stares in open horror, shocked beyond action. It's weirdly silent after such a loud noise, and he can't hear the screeches, or rustles, though he should, since now the door is _gone,_ and he can see the stairs going to the rooftop and a rectangle of sky at then end.

Then, he hears the loudest screeches, the rectangle of sky becomes _black,_ and Stiles doesn't even wait one moment to grab his abandoned bat. He runs.

The harpies — yes, they are harpies, well done, Scott — come flying down the stairs and into the corridor in a flurry of feathers and screeches. They are considerably more scary than the pictures accounted for: their faces are distorted masks of fury that have a weird resemblance to actual human faces. They have pointy teeth, and it just seems like they have too many for one mouth. Their bodies are big, bigger than Stiles first assumed they would be, covered in dark blue feathers that start at the neck. And their talons, okay, their talons are the reason Stiles is running _faster_ , because one of the harpies got close enough to claw his shoulder, and they are sharp. Stiles definitely doesn't want those anywhere near him again.

The floor is in U shape, and, in part, it's that alone that saves Stiles from being maimed, because the harpies are just bad at flying at such small space. They are too big, too many, and that gives Stiles enough to put a bit of a distance between them. He turns at the corner, that stretches into the small hall where the elevator is. He stumbles a bit, skidding on the wet floor, and hits the wall with his shoulder. His Converse are just not made for wet floor, and he barely has the time to start running again, before the harpies are almost on him.

Which, Stiles realizes with despair, might just happen anyway, because the elevator door is _closed_ , and it isn't there waiting for him. He just doesn't have enough time to call for the elevator and wait. To make matters worse, he just passed the stairs.

He's dead. He's going to actually _die_.

Screaming, Stiles just keeps running, hits the button of the elevator in a panicked despair, but he doesn't even know in which floor it is on; the floor counter isn't working. He looks over his shoulder, sees the first harpy, screech at him and _charge_ , and he's dead. He's so dead. Why didn't he bring the damn gun?

The door opens with a pleasant ding, and Stiles falls inside the elevator.

Stiles rubs his temple where he hit the elevator floor head-first, and looks up, just in time to see a harpy being flung away, while the elevator's door close with another pleasant ding. He crawls into a sitting position and slumps against the elevator wall, stays right there too shocked for a moment.

Because apparently he didn't just escape death by the hair. Oh no. Stiles was saved by _Derek freaking Hale_.

Stiles stares at Derek who's looking at him, still partially shifted. He turns to Stiles, sideburns and ears retreating into human form, before putting out a hand for Stiles to hold. Stiles stares, before taking it, and letting himself be pulled upwards.

“You okay there?” Derek asks, and it's surreal. It's beyond surreal actually. Somewhere right up there with bizarre land.

Derek looks so much like he did five years ago, but he also looks so different. His hair is longer, now brushed back and waving slightly as the ends curl around his ears. Stiles had never realized just how thick Derek's hair is, and it's just stupid how much he wants to _touch_ it. His beard is also thicker, less of a scruff and more full than it used to be. It's such a funny contrast with the Derek Stiles first met, with spiked hair and clean-shaved jaw. His face changed too, he looks more mature, older even. More serene than he ever remembered seeing Derek.

Five years. Five years. And Derek appears to save his freaking life, just how absurd is his life? Stiles opens his mouth, thinks of all the things he could say Derek.

“I... What the hell are you doing here?” Is what comes out though, and Stiles flinches at his own lack of smoothness.

Derek, though, seems unaffected by the rudeness. The elevator is going down slowly, making a high whirring sound as it goes, and Stiles grits his teeth at the noise.

“Scott called me, and told me you were going in by yourself. I came as backup.”

“That's not what I meant— What the hell are you doing _here_? In Beacon Hills!” Stiles exclaims, gesturing wildly. He's met only by Derek's patented eyebrow raise.

Oh god, Stiles _missed_ it so much.

“I have a house here,” Derek says, crossing his arms defensively, “in case you have forgotten.”

“Yeah, well, that didn't seem to matter for five years,” The elevator shakes, creaking weirdly, and Stiles puts a hand on the wall, for steadiness, “What the f—”

The elevator comes to a halt, lurching up and down violently, before the lights go out. Stiles is launched on the floor, and he groans in pain, as he falls on his butt. Second time being thrown on the floor — his day is looking better and better.

“What happened?” Stiles asks, kneeling. He pats his pocket, and pulls out his phone, turning on the camera flash as a flashlight.

“Elevator stopped,” Derek is looking up, frowning at the ceiling, and Stiles feels apprehensive. What if the harpies managed to get into the elevator shaft, and are clawing the cables? What if they are minutes away from plunging to their deaths?

“No shit, Sherlock! I haven't noticed,” Stiles snarks back, and receives a glare for his sarcasm, “Why did it stop?”

“Do I look like the maintenance guy? How would I know?”

Stiles opens his mouth, ready to snark back, but Derek is already turning his back, and going to the door. He lets his claws out, and pushes them on small space between both sliding doors to pry them open. They go without much trouble, though there's a very worrying clanking sound when Derek uses sheer strength to make them open.

They are stuck between two floors, though they can see the the exit on the top part of the elevator door. The space is enough for them to belly-crawl out of the elevator, but Stiles has seen enough horror movies that he knows exactly what will happen if they try to leave through there. Stiles grabs Derek's sleeve, pulls at it nervously.

“No, no, wait. You aren't thinking of getting out through there, are you?"

Derek looks at where Stiles is holding him, but the intimidation tactic stopped being effective long time ago. Stiles stares at him, trying to convey that he is fully prepared to annoy him until he gives up, and Derek just rolls his eyes.

“I wanted to see where we were,” Derek points up with the hand Stiles isn't holding, “because we can try getting out through the top.”

There's a very clear service hatch at the ceiling that is probably used for maintenance purposes, and, if they are so close the the exit to the floor, they could, theoretically go out through there, without the risk of being bisected by a falling elevator. On the other hand, if the elevator falls, they'll free fall to death. Great.

“Or we can just wait for this to work again,” Stiles suggests, as he brands his phone on Derek's face, “we can call Scott for— Fuck. No signal. Look, that's a bad idea. What if there are harpies on the shaft?”

Derek says nothing, just jumps and punches the hatch, which snaps open. Stiles peeks in the darkness above. No harpies.

“There aren't,” Derek says. He jumps again, pulls himself up effortlessly. His biceps bunch as he pulls himself up; his shirt rides up showing his happy trail. Stiles thanks everything in existence, because Derek looks just as good as he ever did.

“There could be!” Stiles bellows, and Derek looks down the hole, looking annoyed at Stiles. It's such a familiar look, “What if the elevator falls, huh? Have you thought about it? What if it moves? Five years and you didn't deal with your death wish!”

Derek huffs, takes a deep breath, before speaking slowly, like Stiles is the most trying thing in existence. Might be the case.

“You can stay here if you're so worried, Stiles. I am going.”

Derek stands up, and Stiles feels anger licking inside his chest. It's an ugly, savage feeling gripping his heart all of a sudden, because doesn't _get_ to be like this. He doesn't.

Stiles doesn't _understand_ why Derek is back. How long is he back in Beacon Hills? Why didn't he even say hi to Stiles? Okay, they were never the closest friends out there, and Derek always seemed to like Scott better anyway, but hey, they saved each other's lives several times. They worked together. Derek spent several nights in Stiles' bedroom, helping with research. Stiles had crashed in the damn loft more times than one. They helped each other; they used to be there for each other when it counted. Stiles thought that Derek had at least enough respect for him to say hello. But no, he was back into Beacon Hills, and Stiles didn't even know.

“Oh, but of course you are,” Stiles bites back bitterly, “You're always leaving.”

Derek doesn't move for a moment, before he hops inside the elevator again. The entire thing shakes at the impact, and Stiles squeaks in fear.

“Jesus, are you fucking—” Stiles starts, voice coming embarrassingly high pitched.

“What is your problem?” Derek interrupts, crowding Stiles a bit, and, instead of fear, it just makes Stiles more angry, “I came to save you from your own stupidity, and you're angry at me for that?”

“I didn't need your help, asshole, I could have solved it without you!”, Stiles replies

“Oh yeah, I saw how you were solving much, by running for your life,” Derek sneers, and Stiles has to refrain himself from pushing Derek's chest, screaming right on his face. Why does he even care? Derek is an asshole. A huge asshole, and Stiles apparently forgot that.

“Oh, we did alright without your help for five years! I'm sorry if I'm confident you are not needed here.”

Derek recoils a bit at that, looks wounded for a brief moment, before he puts his mask of indifference back in place. Stiles immediately regrets everything he said; it was unnecessary and harsh for no reason. Derek did save his life. Beacon Hills is his home. What is Stiles even saying?

“Derek—” Stiles starts, but Derek doesn't wait; he just jumps through the service hatch, goes to the elevator top. Stiles calls him again, but his voice is drowned by the deafening sound of Derek prying the floor door open.

Derek is gone before Stiles can even haul himself up.

**x-x-x-x-x-x**

Scott isn't happy with how things developed, for more reasons than one. Stiles knows it, even though Scott isn't saying anything, but it's there, clear in the tense line of his shoulders and the reproach in his eyes. Stiles doesn't explain himself, not after leaving the elevator and finding Scott outside the building, not even later that night, as Scott swings by Stiles apartment.

“Why didn't you tell me Derek was back?” Stiles asks after a while, looking at the pizza leftovers he's been feeding himself with for the past few days and the bottle of lukewarm beer he's been nursing ever since Scott arrived.

“It just slipped my mind, Stiles. I didn't think it was important, until you told me you liked him. Then I didn't say anything, because you were so freaked out already. I hadn't planned for you two to meet like that.”

Stiles sighs, slouches on the couch, turns his head to look at Scott. Love drama was always Scott's alley, not Stiles, and he has no idea what to do with himself.

“Why did you call him anyway?” Stiles asks, drinks the beer. It's too warm, and he grimaces. Sips again.

Scott takes the bottle out of Stiles' hand, before placing it out of his reach. Stiles pouts in return. Spoilsport.

“Quit that. I was just busy; the harpies got violent, and I had to make sure they didn't attack anyone on the street. But I knew that would mean trouble for you, so I called him. Derek was at the loft; it was the quickest reinforcement I could think of.”

Stiles nods, because it makes sense, but it doesn't change the fact that Stiles screwed up anyway, and Derek probably hates his guts.

Scott leaves after awhile, taking with him all the alcohol in the house, even the secret stash that Stiles put behind a mountain ash barrier. It sucks having to face his feeling while sober.

Two days later, Stiles is still moping. He's good at that. Moping. He has a special talent for over thinking things and torturing himself with obsessive thought about his mistakes and inadequacy. Not that he will voice them, hell no. He'll just silently replay all of them in his head, until he finally manages to turn his feelings around and move on. Though it might take a while for that. Stiles feels like the biggest asshole on the face of the Earth. He still has massive feelings for Derek.

Stiles groans for what seems the eleventh time in the last five minutes, before letting his head fall on the table with a resounding thump. His dad puts his vegan sub down, and, even though Stiles isn't really looking, he can picture in his mind’s eye his dad doing the squinting-eye routine at him.

“Are you going to tell me what's making you sigh, or I'll have to take a guess?”

Stiles only left his apartment to have lunch with his dad. He tries to do it just as often as their working schedules allow, which sometimes can get weirdly busy (most on Stiles' part. Who would guess that working from home could be so stressful at times?).

“You're the Sheriff,” Stiles replies, turning his face to look at his dad. All he sees is the cup of chai blocking his line of sight, though, “You have investigative skills. Give it a try.”

Stiles hears his dad humming pensively, and straightens up, facing his father properly.

“It's love problem, isn't it?”

Damn. His dad is _good_. It makes him proud. Also incredibly annoyed.

“How did you know?”

“Well, if it was some... Other kind of ' _trouble_ ',” his dad says, making air quotes with his fingers, and Stiles laughs. Even after years, the man has trouble saying 'supernatural', “you wouldn't ask me to guess. You'd try to keep me in the dark.”

Huh. True enough, Stiles thinks, nodding at his dad, who just scowls.

“You shouldn't hide that from me, Stiles. If it was Scott, you would just tell me. If it was something else, work or something, you wouldn't be sulking. You would be agitated and all over the place, but not sulking. You only sulk when it's love-related. So. What's eating you?”

Stiles sighs again for good measure, before picking a napkin and slowly ripping it into small pieces.

“Well... Let's say that I realized I might like someone,” Stiles starts, unsure of how to tell his dad it's Derek, of all people. His father is fully aware that Stiles is bisexual, has been for years now, but it's _Derek_. That's another set of rules entirely, “And that maybe I might have been... Surprised? And—”

“Okay, I know you,” His dad says, leaning forward to grab a napkin to clean his fingers, “Stop beating around the bush, and go straight to the point, Stiles.”

Stiles stares at his dad for a moment, thinking on how to break it to him without risking some heart-attack. It isn't so much because Derek is male — that ship has sailed a long time ago, in a very awkward talk during Summer break of Stiles' first year of college — But because it's _Derek_. Scott might have taken it with surprising ease, but his dad probably won't. Even if, well, they did work together for awhile, and his dad has some respect for Derek's investigative skills.

Okay, so maybe his father did hint he wished Derek had stayed and made a career in the Beacon Hills police department. Who would have thought? His dad had used words like “ _dependable_ ” and “ _committed to his work_ ”. Stiles spent the entire week wondering if his dad was possessed, or if Stiles had accidentally landed himself in bizarro world.

Come to think of it, it isn't much of a surprise it took Stiles so long to realize his feelings.

“I think... I might like someone,” Stiles starts, and he feels seventeen again. It's becoming weirdly recurrent these days, “I've liked someone for awhile now, and I didn't realize until recently. Which would be okay? But it's not.”

The Sheriff squints over his cup of juice, pinning Stiles with a look that says he's so not impressed by Stiles lack of verbal fluency. In all honest, Stiles isn't much impressed himself. He never thought feelings could make him regress this bad into teenage years, but at least now he has some perspective on Scott general behavior back in the days.

“Stiles, cut the crap, who are you seeing? Are they an ex-con?” His dad pushes back from the tablet, reclines on his chair with a pained look on his face, “Is it a kanima?”

Stiles couldn't hold in the laughter even if he tried — and he doesn't. He just laughs loudly, lightly slapping the table, while his dad looks at him with some concern.

“I love how everything is about kanimas for you, Dad,” Stiles says after his laughter dies out, taking a sobering breath before continuing, “No, Dad, uh, _he..._ Isn't a kanima. Though he is a, hm, something that goes bump in the night? Like supernatural? Not entirely human? You get my meaning.”

The Sheriff makes that complicated expression shift that usually means he's trying to deal with the onslaught of information Stiles laid on him. It happens so very often, Stiles doesn't even need to think that much to read it correctly. Eventually, he nods warily, before picking his sandwich again, and taking a chunk out of it.

“And... This _he_ has a name? Aw dammit, is it Hale?”

Stiles _stares_ because what?

Apparently his facial expression is answer enough, because his dad makes this groan-y sound, and takes another bite of his sub, completely unconcerned with the fact that he got it right on the first guess. In fact, he looks way too unconcerned by said guess being true.

_What. Even._

“I'm not surprised there, Son, I'm really not.”

“Dad, _I_ am surprised, how can you _not_ be?” Stiles exclaims, picking up his drink and gnawing viciously on the straw, “This is outrageous!”

“It is outrageous that I know my son.” His father deadpans, looking unimpressed.

“YES! Because I didn't know I liked Derek until a couple of days ago, and let me tell you, Dad, that revelation? It wasn't _fun_.” His dad still looks unconcerned, and Stiles isn't happy, “First Scott, and now you. You're both acting like it's perfectly normal for me to like Derek! And you know what's worse? It would be fine if that happened, and Derek was still away. But oh no. Oh no, of course the son of a bitch is back now, of all times! How is it okay at all?”

Stiles huffs, feeling winded by his rant, as his dad finishes his lunch, before pinning Stiles with a look that means he'll get into serious speech mode.

“Son, I think you're more shocked it took you this long than anything. It's been a while since I've seen you like someone; too long even. And Hale is a fine man—”

“Really, Dad? You're praising Derek? _Really_?”

His dad's glare shuts him up on the spot. It never fails to.

“What? You want me to be against it?” His dad asks, and Stiles feels his cheeks burning because well, “Kiddo, I think you want me to reproach you on it. I think you want anyone to, so you can latch on that and excuse yourself from facing Hale. And Stiles, I know you're a big fan of avoiding your troubles, but that's not going to get you far in life.”

“Got me here, didn't it?”

“It didn't. And you know that it didn't. Now stop being a whiny baby about this; be a man, Stiles. If Hale is back, go talk to him. Or don't, and move on. But whatever you do, do it because it's the best option, the right one, and not because you're more afraid of being rejected than anything.”

“I am not!”

His father doesn't really bother answering him, just looks at him intently, before balling the sub paper in his hand and tossing into the trash.

“Out, Stiles. I have work to do.”

Fine. Stiles can solve this by himself.

**x-x-x-x-x-x**

It wouldn't be hard to avoid Derek pretty much indefinitely, but Scott organizes a pack meeting the day after of Stiles' lunch with his dad. To talk about the harpies, he says, beside doing a proper welcome home to Derek (Who promptly says there's absolutely no need for that, but Scott _insists_ ). And, because Scott is Scott, he decides that the Hale loft is the best place for such.

Stiles' luck is such, apparently, that Lydia arrives that day, for the meeting. Which he would be thrilled about — he is still, in part — but Stiles also knows that Lydia will sniff his feelings for Derek from miles away, and he'll never hear the end of it. God knows the last thing Stiles wants is to discuss his feelings for Derek with Lydia, because while Scott and his dad were mostly unaffected by Stiles' denial, Lydia will be anything but that. She'll needle, and prod, and _push_ until Stiles does something, and no. Just no. Not yet, at least. Still, avoiding the meeting seems impossible — as Scott made sure to let Stiles know he'll drag him himself — and he's anxious about it all.

Resigned to his fate, though, Stiles makes his way in the designated hour, dragging his feet out of his Jeep, and up to Derek's building. It looks better than what Stiles remembers, though still fairly simple. They renovated the hall; it's now properly painted, and it even has mirrors along on the walls. There's a desk, where a janitor is taking a nap, sprawled on his chair, as a radio is playing low in the background. Stiles considers waking him up, but he supposes that it's hard to arrive unannounced when Derek can probably hear him when he's halfway to the loft.

He presses the button, and the elevator comes down. Derek's building still has the creepy freight elevator, though the metal doors are now painted a sober metallic blue, and not as battered as they were five years prior. Still, Stiles was never fond of the damn thing; it's prone to shake and make creepy noises that Stiles would pay not deal with, not after his last run-in with an elevator.

It arrives with a high-pitched alarm that is loud enough to raise the doorman from his slumber. The man glares at Stiles, who smiles awkwardly at him, throwing a little wave.

“Hey, you can't go up like this,” the man says, standing up. He's shorter than Stiles thought, also rounder in the middle. He must be close to his dad in age, though he has more white hairs of what's left on his head, “Who're you, boy?”

“Uh, oh hey, I'm here to see H—”

“He's with me, Billy, it's fine,” says someone, and of course it is Derek, coming inside the building with some bags in his hands, “I'll have some company today, you can let them up, please.”

Stiles considers just running in the opposite direction of Derek, but that would be going inside of the elevator, which is hardly helpful. Derek doesn't look mad; he looks actually amazing in his navy Henley and tight black jeans. His face isn't projecting any murderous vibes, which is a serious plus.

The janitor, Billy, frowns but nods, before sitting back in his chair and ignoring them. Derek walks to Stiles and doesn't say anything, just pulls the freight elevator's door open.

“I, uh, am I early?” Stiles tentatively says, as Derek steps in, “Did I get anything wrong in the message...?”

“I sent one not even an hour ago saying I would be slightly late,” Derek replies swiftly, adjusting the plastic bags in his hands, “everybody answered except you.”

“Oh,” Stiles pulls his phone out of his pocket, and there it is. There's a mass message of Derek telling them he needs to run a quick errand, and for everybody to arrive one hour later from the original hour. Stiles didn't feel his phone vibrate and missed the message; he was probably so worried about the meeting, that he zoned out about everything around him, “I can go, and come back later. My bad, I didn't check—”

“You can wait at the loft if you want,” Derek cuts, and it seems to be paining him a bit. Stiles gulps, feeling terrible, “Just step inside already, Stiles. I can't hold the elevator indefinitely. Someone might want to use it.”

Stiles scrambles inside, nervously watching as Derek pulls the door closed, and punches the number of his floor on the elevator panel. It whirs and shakes up, making enough noise to raise the dead from their eternal slumber. Stiles is a bit glad by the excessive amount of noise; it completely cut any chance of small talk between the two of them. Though, now that Stiles is thinking, he's about to be alone in Derek's loft for some unknown amount of time before the pack arrives.

Great. Just stellar.

He surreptitiously steals a glance at Derek. He's looking up at the elevator display, watching as the numbers go up. He doesn't look particularly bothered by Stiles presence, so much as he's completely pretending Stiles isn't even there. Which _rude_ , though Stiles is fairly aware he was rude first. So maybe it isn't a good idea to tell someone who has been away for so long that they aren't _needed_. But it's also true. Derek isn't needed at all. _Wanted_ though, is some other business entirely.

“Why did you postpone the meeting?” Stiles asks as they pass the third floor. He needs to break the silence, because it's driving him mad. So what if he needs to scream a bit over the elevator's noise?

Derek frowns, but doesn't look at Stiles.

“I needed to go out for a bit.”

“Yeah, what for?” Stiles pressures, because Derek is being evasive on purpose, and Stiles is having none of that.

Derek just raises the plastic bags, finally deigning Stiles a look, even if it's one of pure annoyance.

“You went shopping for food? Couldn't that wait?”

Eyes rolling, Derek looks away again, and Stiles feels himself even more determined to make him answer like a proper person.

“No, it couldn't wait, Stiles,” Derek says, with a sarcastic smile in his face, “There's no food in my house, and I would rather cook myself for the pack than ask for delivery.”

“Cook? You're cooking?” Stiles balks because did he hear right? “You're cooking for us?”

“No. For my dead grandma. What do you think?”

Stiles lets out a snort, because he didn't even _know_ Derek knew how to boil water, let alone cook, and the mental image is just too stunning for him to deal with seriously. He opens his mouth to tell Derek so, when the entire elevator is plunged into darkness, and it stops with a dying hum.

“Oh c'mon, what— Not again!” Stiles exclaims, and he immediately turns on his phone flash. Derek frowns, as he puts his bags on the floor, and edges closer to the door, putting his ear to it, “What is it? What happened? What—”

“I can't listen if you keep yapping!” Derek snaps, and in the harsh light of the phone's flash, Derek is all hard angles, and angry eyebrows. Stiles notices his ears are shifted.

“What the hell, Man? You don't need to be an ass!”

Derek turns, gets right into Stiles’ personal space, and presses a hand over his mouth. It's so fast, Stiles barely has the time to react, except for the blushing spreading on his cheeks.

“Stiles. Shut. Up,” Stiles does, mostly because Derek isn't even paying attention to him anymore; he's back at the elevator door, listening to god knows what.

Stiles checks his phone and notices he has some signal, which is an amazing strike of luck. He sends a message to Scott, telling him they are stuck, when Derek sighs after some seconds, rubbing his forehead.

“The power is down in the entire building,” Derek announces, looking chagrined, “it doesn't have a generator yet, so we need to wait for it to come back.”

“That's just great,” Stiles mumbles, before sending a few more messages to Scott; he knows there's a chance he won't see otherwise, “Can't you just do what you did the last time? Work your werewolf magic to get us out?”

Derek shakes his head and points at the ceiling, and Stiles looks up. Save for the lights and what looks like an exhaust fan that isn't working now, there's no service hatch like the last one.

“There's no emergency exit here,” Derek explains tiredly, “This is a freight elevator, and very old one at that. It should have been replaced, but I never managed to,” Derek says, sighing deeply, before resting against the wall, “There used to be a elevator for people, but it collapsed several years ago, before I bought the building. When I got it, I closed the shaft, meaning to rebuild it. I just... Never got around to it.”

Derek stops talking abruptly, like he suddenly realizes how much he's talking. Stiles doesn't remember another moment they both exchanged so many words, or that Derek said so much to Stiles voluntarily. It feels suddenly... Weird. That Stiles bears so many feelings for a guy he never had many talks with. But then, Stiles thinks, there was Lydia, wasn't there? And it makes Stiles wonder if it's a bit of the same thing, an obsession based on an idealization, an idea in Stiles' head.

Stiles doesn't know what to answer, and Derek doesn't say anything else, so they just stay like that, awkwardly avoiding each other's gaze, before the blasting sound of Stiles' phone break the silence. Stiles answers, and Scott's anxious voice comes through the tiny speakers.

“Stiles! The harpies ate the power cables!” Scott exclaims, and there's a distinct screech discernible in the background. In fact, Stiles can hear the faint echo of said screech from where he is, “They just went mad, and they are attacking everything!”

“Shit, shit, shit! Scott, you need to get us out of the elevator so we can help!”

“I can't, they— Oh fuck, _Kira, watch out_! They are attacking! I'm going to see what I can do, just wait right there!”

“It's not like I can go anywhe— _Hello?_ Scott?”

The call ends abruptly and Stiles stares at his phone. He groans loudly, before sliding to the floor.

“Did you hear?” Stiles says, raising his phone so Derek can see what he's talking about. He turns off the flashlight; by the looks of it, they'll be stuck for a long time, and his battery won't hold like that.

“Yeah. I can also hear the harpies, not clearly, but. Just let me...” There's some rustling and some grunting from Derek, before there's a high metallic sound.

“What are you doing?!”

He turns the flashlight back on, just in time to see Derek prying the elevator doors open. The doors are the a two-section car gate type, that slide up when opened, some old monstrosity typical in freight elevators. They give out with a loud clang, and Stiles is sure they are _not_ closing again on their own, power or not.

To their luck, they are stuck _exactly_ between two floors, with no access to the doors.

“Well... Fuck,” Stiles grumbles, slouching even further on the elevator floor. He snorts and jokes, “Honestly, with you around, even an elevator ride goes wrong.”

Derek, though, apparently didn't take it well, because he glares at Stiles, who surreptitiously turns off the light again, because woah. That is one angry face.

“ _What?_ Fuck off, Stiles.”

“Woah, chill!” His mouth drops open on its own accord, because Stiles never _ever_ heard Derek swear at him like that, “I was joking?”

In the pitch dark they are in, Stiles can't see Derek's face, but he can hear how _angry_ his voice sounds. It makes Stiles' heart race, for some reason. Derek is furious at him, and it's almost worse that Stiles can't read his facial expression for cues.

“Right, I can see how you're joking,” Derek sneers viciously, “What's wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me? What the hell do you even mean by that?”

The elevator car is big enough so they can sit down without touching, but it seems too small in the heat of an impending fight. Stiles doesn't understand what Derek even means by that. Sure he was rude the first time they saw each other, and maybe his joke was slightly off-beat, but it isn't like he's going after Derek after every turn.

Especially not after his recent revelation.

“I mean that ever since I came back, you've been all passive aggressive towards me, and I don't know _why_. What's your problem with me, huh? We don't have to be friends, Stiles, but I would rather you didn't antagonize me at every given chance!”

“I'm not antagonizing you since you came back! This is the second freaking time I've seen you! I didn't even _know_ you were back until that day in the elevator, because you didn't bother dropping by to say hi!”

Stiles winces, and he's glad for the darkness, because that shouldn't have come out.

“Why would I look for someone who did nothing but make it clear they dislike me?” Derek asks, and there's genuine puzzlement in his voice, covered by layers of contempt.

Stiles falls silent for a moment, pulls at the strings of the hoodie he's wearing. He doesn't know what to answer, or how to answer, and the words stick in his throat, refuse to come out. Derek scoffs derisively at his silence.

“I don’t believe it.”

“I don't dislike you,” Stiles interrupts, thinking to hell with it all. What he has to lose anyway? “I haven’t disliked you for a long time now, okay? Okay, fine, maybe what I said last time was fucked up, but I was— I was shocked, maybe. I've been thinking about you, how you weren't _here_ any more, and then you suddenly appear to save me? What even, okay! It was just too weird, and I didn't know how to deal with that. I still don't know how to deal with that. At all.”

There's an almost audible pause on Derek's part, Stiles can practically hear him trying to make sense of his inane ramble. And Stiles almost wishes he would just ignore it, just pass up the chance of _knowing_ , because this is beyond terrifying for him.

“Deal with what?” Derek asks at last, voice quiet, and Stiles wonders if he somehow knows.

“I don't hate you, man. Just... Just the opposite, actually, and I didn't— I didn't know, I didn't realize it until few days ago. Just a bit before seeing you, and until then... It was a bit of a solace you weren't around, so I could deal with my meltdown in peace. But... But you're here now. You're here, y'know?”

“Stiles...”

“Look, I know it's weird, okay? It's beyond bizarre; I know,” Stiles takes a deep breath, thinks back. How do you express your feelings like this? In the dark, in a stuck elevator, unable to escape, if things get too much? “But you were the person I thought about all the time, and I never... I never really noticed? I don't know how I didn't notice, but I would wonder about you all the time, I would think randomly about you, and.... I know it feels like this came out of nowhere, like why would I even lo— _like_ you, you're totally not my type, you don't even talk, and I—”

“Stop talking. You're this close of offending me again.”

Stiles snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. He just prays Scott is on his way already, because he needs to leave this elevator, and he needs to to it _now_. While he still has some pride left.

“So you love me?”

“Like. I said _like_. I specifically said like.”

“Stiles.”

“Fine. Yeah. Yeah, I do. Jesus, this is embarrassing.”

There's some rustling noise, and then he feels the warmth of a hand on his knee. Stiles jerks in surprise, because he wasn't expecting this and, unless there's an invisible third person inside the elevator with them, that's Derek touching Stiles' knee.

“Do you know why I came back?”

Stiles shakes his head, and then remembers the darkness, but apparently Derek can see him anyway, because he chuckles low. Damn werewolves. There's a moment of silence, like Derek is psyching himself up for something, and it makes Stiles anxious like nothing else.

“When I left, I wasn't in a good place. Not yet. I was almost there I think, but that showdown with Kate,” There's no anger in Derek's voice talking about Kate, only underlying sadness, “it showed me I needed more. Time off. Distance. So I left.”

Stiles says nothing, because he can't even begin to imagine what Beacon Hills represents to Derek, after everything he went through here. How can a place be both home _and_ the stage where all his tragedies played out? It's one of those things Stiles would think about while drunk at 3AM at his college dorm, and maybe get teared up about, because damn. In hindsight, how could he have taken so long to realize his feelings, when Derek was the thing he thought about when drunk?

“And it was good for me, the time away," Derek continues, and Stiles wants to hold his hand so badly, "Braeden was good for me,” Stiles can't help but grimace, and the hand in his knee squeezes a bit, “She helped me trust again. We parted ways about a year ago.”

“Wow... That— That was a long time together.”

“Yeah. We became only good friends somewhere along the way; it's hard to let go at times. But... But she wasn't the one person I would constantly think about."

Stiles looks up and searches the darkness for Derek. He can't see anything, the elevator has no source of light, but he does anyway because Stiles doesn't know if he dares hope. He doesn't even know if he can stop himself from hoping anyway.

"Yeah?" Stiles whispers, all his words compressed in one tight ball against his stomach. What if...?

"Yeah. I had to wait to come back to Beacon Hills; I knew most of the pack would be away for college, and I didn't want to be here alone. I kept contact with Scott somewhat regularly, so I knew when everybody was coming back."

"I know. I mean, I know you kept contact with Scott; he would mention you sometimes." Stiles makes a small noise, not really a whine but almost there. "I always wondered why you never bothered contacting m— the rest of the pack."

Derek's knee for a moment, and Stiles thinks he screwed up again, is ready to take it back, when Derek's hand holds his hand. He can't help but grasp it. He doesn't care if it probably looks desperate; he _feels_ desperate. Stiles feels like he's on the brink of something, and it's killing him.

"I wasn't sure anyone else cared. Scott was the one that initiated contact. Said that I was still pack, if I wanted to be. I told him I did." Derek stops for a moment, and Stiles can almost hear him fumbling for words, "I wanted to contact you. I just..."

Derek falls silent, seemed to finally have run out of words. His grip on Stiles's hand doesn't falter; if nothing gets even a little bit tighter, like he's afraid his silence will be misunderstood. Stiles pulls his hand free, ignoring the small wounded noise Derek makes at that, and intertwines their fingers together.

"Derek?"

"Yes?"

"You can see me, yeah?"

"Barely, but yeah."

"Good. So come here and kiss me, because I have a feeling that if I try to, I'll break your nose."

Derek laughs, breathless and eager, and Stiles feels his hands framing his face, holding his cheeks, before Derek's lips are against Stiles, nothing but the sweet pressure of their mouths together. Stiles can't help but smile into it, relieved that his impossible feelings aren't that impossible after all.

They break apart, laughter bubbling in Stiles's chest. He wants to press in again, kiss Derek open-mouthed and dirty, but he can't see his reaction, doesn't know if it's okay.

"Damn, this would be a good time for the light to come back, because crap. Say something, man."

Derek laughs, and Stiles can hear him moving, before weight — Derek's weight — is on his thighs. He can feel Derek's knees pressing close on his hips, and it feels amazing. Derek is in his lap, and Stiles doesn't want anything else, except maybe to be in Derek's lap himself.

"I'm going to kiss you again," Derek announces, his lips already so close Stiles can feel his breathing.

"I'm one hundred percent on board with this decision."

They kiss again, and this time is longer, better. Derek nibbles on Stiles's lower lip, and Stiles parts them willingly, lets Derek deepen the kiss, and it's nothing like Stiles imagined it would be. Derek is less of an aggressive kisser than Stiles would have guessed; he's careful and loving, and it says more than words could.

Stiles doesn't know — or care — for how long they kiss. It's just not enough where Stiles is concerned, since it leaves Stiles wanting and aching for more. He wonders if it would be too forward to grind up into Derek; he already has both his hands under Derek's shirt, feeling the amazing hardness of his abs and soft tickle of his chest hair under his fingertips. They still have a lot to talk about, and he doesn't even know if this now means they are boyfriends. Are they boyfriends now? The word alone feels surreal in Stiles's head.

He scratches his nails down Derek's side, and thinks it can wait, any complex talk can wait until when he has Derek right where he wants him to be.

Stiles tugs Derek's shirt up, asking for permission to take it off, and he doesn't even need to voice his silent request, before Derek takes it off himself. His own button-up plaid is already halfway down his shoulders, but Stiles can't really say it bothers him. He frees himself of the shirt, giggling drunkenly when Derek hums in approval, and they are at each other again. Derek's teeth close against the soft skin of his earlobe, and suck on it, making Stiles moan wantonly. His hands falter on his way down Derek's body, until they hit the cold metal of his belt, and Stiles would have made a sound of triumph, if it wouldn't be completely mortifying to do so. He unbuckles it one-handed, but Derek is holding his wrist in place, and Stiles stops dead in his tracks.

“Oh crap, I'm sorry, shit,” Stiles swears, trying to tug his hand away, but Derek is still holding it in place, feeling tense.

“No, it's not that, it's just...”

He doesn't get to finish, because that's the exact moment the elevator whirs to life and jolts up. Stiles yelps, mostly surprised at the sudden movement, and before he knows it, the doors open, and there's three firemen staring at Stiles and Derek, half naked and all over each other. Plus Scott, Kira, _and_ Lydia. Also his dad, because his life is that wonderful.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groans, hiding his face in Derek's neck and fully intending to never move again.

“Well, at least they are clothed, right boys?” One of the fireman says, chuckling heartily, “I've honestly seen worse in my life. C'mon now, guys. Beds are better for this business.”

Stiles honestly wants the elevator to drop him to his death.

****x-x-x-x-x-x**  
**

 

> _**THREE WEEKS LATER** _

Once the proverbial cat was out of the bag, and the entire pack (plus his dad and half the fire department) knew about their romantic development, it felt important for Stiles and Derek to sit down and talk.

The harpy menace had been dealt with anyway, with Lydia's genial intervention in coaching the pack into using makeshift spears to kill them. Trust Lydia to realize connections with the myth, and solving the problem as swiftly as possible.

Without a supernatural menace looming over them, it was easier to talk about their feelings. And, well, other things. Other things that don't involve that much talking, but a lot of moaning, and that, contrary to what the fireman had said, can actually be done on several different surfaces that are not beds. That is to say that they had sex around the loft, on almost every surface available, except the kitchen, because Derek was resolute about not tainting the place where he cooks. Which was one of those things Stiles never imagined finding out about him: Derek actually liked to cook. He was no master chef, but he took pleasure into making his meals, and he genuinely enjoyed cooking for them. Stiles was hooked heart, stomach and dick, and irrevocably in love with Derek.

To Stiles surprise, the Sheriff seemed mostly pleased by their romantic development. His words had been, as soon as Stiles managed to get out of Derek bed, and went to his weekly lunch with his dad “ _I think he's going to be good for you, Kiddo_.” He didn't even threaten Derek with bodily harm in case he hurt Stiles; in fact, he threatened Stiles if he didn't do Derek right.

Who would have thought his dad was a fan of Derek?

Scott also took the new with unsurprising ease. He was already treating them as a couple from day one, and it was borderline embarrassing how pleased he looked. Kira seemed to smile every time she as much as laid eyes on them together, and Lydia. Well. Lydia only smiled, said it was “ _about damn time_ ”, and complained about “ _how long it took for these two idiots, I mean, I've been aware since before Derek left._ ” In other words, she was her flawless perceptive self, and looked completely unimpressed by their development.

By the three week mark, Stiles was often in the loft, almost as much as Derek was over in his apartment. There was Stiles' laundry at Derek's place, because otherwise Stiles wouldn’t do his laundry as needed. There were Derek's pajamas and socks at Stiles' apartment, because despite his propensity for being half naked, Derek actually liked to sleep with his pajamas and socks on. They had toothbrushes and other assorted toiletries in both places. It was a bit like living together, but in two different places at time.

Still, they still hadn't talked about their relationship status.

Their initial talk about feelings involved a lot of talking about what they felt, and how long it took them to realize things, and why it took so long. It involved mutual compromise in trying to have a relationship together, because they both wanted to see if they could work out. But they never talked names. If they were boyfriends, or lovers, or _something_ , and Stiles was a little bit of a kid, okay? He would pretty much love to be able to call Derek his _boyfriend_. His anything, really, as long as it was his.

So that's why they are both lazing around the living room of Stiles' place, both content in not moving after pigging out on three pizzas. Derek can _eat_ , and so can Stiles, actually. They feel too lazy to move, and Zombieland is still on on Netflix, but Stiles isn't really watching it. He knows that Derek looks as invested as himself in the relationship, but what if they aren't in the same page about things? What if Derek has different expectations? He apparently stayed with Braeden for five years, and they are still friends. Despite his past record, he obviously knows what he's doing when it comes to relationships.

Stiles, on the other hand, has a pile of college failures to talk about.

Incapable of holding it in, Stiles nudges Derek with his foot, until Derek holds it still, rolling his head to look at Stiles with one raised eyebrow.

“You can't be hungry again,” Derek says, squeezing Stiles' foot gently, “What is it? You okay?”

Stiles squirms in the couch, stretches his other leg so it's laying on Derek's lap. Derek looks incredibly attractive like this, with his hair sticking up in all directions, looking lazy and relaxed. It isn't so much how handsome he is, but how comfortable he looks. It makes Stiles want to crawl on his lap, kiss his eyelids and cheek, before hugging him.

So what if Stiles is a closeted sap. No one needs to know.

“Yeah, I'm fine. It's just...” Stiles chews on his lower lips for a moment, while Derek waits patiently. “Don't take this wrong, okay?”

“This is starting to worry me, but okay,” Derek says slowly, frowning. The comfortable vibes he was sending change to worry, and Stiles regrets saying anything at all. But he must plunge on.

“Okay, no, look it isn't bad. I hope it isn't bad. I'm just wondering... What are we?”

Derek inclines his head to the side, before giving a tiny smile. He tugs on Stiles's foot, until Stiles rolls his eyes and gives in, moving on the couch so he's sitting in Derek's lap. So apparently that's a thing between them. Stiles is more than okay with that.

“What do you think we are?” Derek asks once Stiles is comfortable. His hands are gentle on Stiles's waist, his tiny smile growing bigger by the second.

“Hey, I asked first!”

Derek shrugs, clearly amused.

“And I asked second.”

“Don't be an ass, Derek, c'mon!” Stiles whines, and Derek chuckles, before leaning in, rubbing his nose against Stiles's. So Derek is a closeted sap too. Stiles loves it.

“We're dating, Stiles, if that's what you want me to say.”

“No, no no, man. That's not what I want you to say; is that how you feel about us? Because you can _not_ feel, and I'm cool about, I'm one hundred percent cool, I mean it's totally your deci—”

In one quick movement, Derek covers Stiles's mouth. Stiles licks into it, but Derek doesn't seem bothered at all.

“You're nervous rambling at me. Stop.” Derek moves the spitted hand, cleans it on Stiles, who yelps in response. “We're dating because that's what we both want. I do. Want it, that is. I have for a long time; you know that. I'm... I'm happy, Stiles. And I think you are too.”

There's a lilt of a question at the end of Derek's statement, and Stiles can't help but smile at that. He moves forward, and kisses Derek, slow and sweet, before pulling back to look him in the eye.

“Yeah, man. I'm happy. It was totally worth getting stuck in an elevator two times for this.”

Stiles would expect to be swatted in the back of the head for saying this, except Derek picks him up and carries him to the bedroom, and... Who would have known that seeing Derek's biceps bunching up at the effort is just so hot?

**x-x-x-x-x-x**

Two years later, Derek arranges so they get stuck in the elevator again. Stiles gets pissed off for a full minute, and fully blames Derek for his lack of luck when it comes to elevators, until Derek gets down on one knee and proposes to him. If anyone asks, Stiles will vehemently deny he cried at the gesture.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thank you Jacqui (captaintinymite @tumblr) for the beta!
> 
> You can find me at [badmooonrising](http://badmooonrising.tumblr.com)


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